


Vogue

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Posted Drafts, Prompt Response, Rimming, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 23:47:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11588670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: There were strict rules about dress code, and for murmured reasons, one person allowed to violate them.





	Vogue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very long response to this tumblr ask: _whamilton prompt? canon era or contemporary or au or whatever you like. george washington is possessive and territorial and scary as hell, but he genuinely adores his boy. alexander hamilton is selfish and hungry and secretly enjoys bringing out the worst in george, but he is also staggeringly loyal and would burn the world to ash if washington gave the word. how brutal and hot and fucked up is it when washington finally claims hamilton for his own/fucks him the way they both desperately want?_
> 
> Apparently my brain went Devil Wears Prada (kind of..) AU at this. I don't know. This isn't really a true fic, just a meme prompt that got a little long. I'm too lazy to fix the capitalization at this point. Maybe later. Also, I don't know anything about makeup, so I'm sorry if something is wrong here.
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr at [iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com), or on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake).

it was not quite serendipity things were the way that they were, but there was the sense of luck to it. 

because, you see, there was only one man in the office for which things had to be strict. rolled-up sleeves were unrolled, shoes put back on and shined (if there was time), pocket-squares sharply creased, makeup touched up, hair checked, glasses shined, eyebrows pruned, eyelashes curled. 

and it was noticed, if eyelashes went uncurled or lips went unlined or the knot of a tie was sloppy and uneven. and it was remarked upon, as coolly as possible. 

these things, of course, took time to do, and as such the quasi-serendipitous event in question was that there was always a trigger to know when to do these things, and that trigger had hair with frayed ends and unbuffed nails and deep, dark bags under his eyes.  
somehow, the trigger in question (who was called alex hamilton), did not need to obey these rules. hamilton mismatched his socks. he scuffed his shoes, or worse, wore the rattiest pair of converse sneakers known to man, and did not compliment them with some sort of grunge attire. hamilton pulled his hair back in a ponytail. no braids or accessories or highlights or touches - just a hairband. hamilton wore the least amount of makeup in a four mile radius, which seemed ridiculous, as he would have needed pounds of the stuff to smooth out the aformentioned eye bags. 

and yet somehow this was permitted, in some peculiar and impossibly-known way. permitted despite all ration and reason and rules and the consequences others had suffered for coming in with a visible hickey or wearing jeans that weren’t ripped artfully enough. 

“You have twenty minutes, kiddos!” Hamilton would announce, and then disappear down the hallway. so men and women would take out emergency makeup and other pocket squares and hurriedly discuss what socks should be matched with what shoes and occasionally items would be switched; hair checked and re-rechecked, cuticles cleaned, vests layered. 

If Hamilton was hurricane-chaos, and often matched that with his bad fashion choices or terrible eyeshadow selection, then there was an eye. the eerie stillness of it, and known power, and silence. the invisible strength and promise of some future destruction.  
this eye was called washington, and it was safe to say he was an extremely handsome eye, and for one to mistake that handsomeness for kindness would not make another mistake again. this handsome eye gave you the sense of suppressed brutality - looking at some gleaming weapon or sword. one man had one said that washington reminded him of a new fighter jet. 

in his employees washington inspired primarily fear, for he was broad-shouldered and strong. there was an envy, for washington possessed the kind of power over his industry people wanted at the core of their green-eyed beings. much about him was distant and impressive; he seemed to have walked off a magazine cover, and was personable as one too. 

when he would walk through the office, twenty minutes later, he took in the curled eyelashes and contoured cheekbones and designed hairstyles and well-layered outfits. maybe it was worse he didn’t speak. there was nothing more terrible than to see washington walking towards your desk. he would reach out and frown at a fraying hem at the collar of your shirt, or put a hand into his pocket and bring out a tiny pair of scissors to cut away a stray thread. then, inspection completed, he would disappear down the hallway as well and close the door to his office behind him. 

* 

“You could have at least worn matching socks,” Washington said. 

“Sorry, I was working,” Hamilton said. 

“Matching your socks is part of your job.” 

“I don’t think that’s in the job description.” 

Washington frowned. “You don’t think looking like you get dressed with the lights on is part of your job description? You work for me.”

Hamilton didn’t seem to be impressed. “You match enough for the both of us.” 

“It doesn’t work like that.” 

“Do you want to complain about my socks, or do you want to hear my plan to destroy Jefferson for you?” 

* 

They were in Paris and he had not seen what Hamilton was wearing. He could not show the incomprehensible terror that rang in every bone in his body. Hamilton could show up in anything. Hamilton could show up in jeans and a t-shirt. Hamilton could show up in a fucking thong. Hamilton could show up in some off-the-rack disaster Nordstroms. 

Hamilton appeared. Hamilton was wearing -- 

The show saw him and stopped, and he stopped just as well. 

Hamilton mismatched, but the impressive kind of mismatch. He wore a long coat with tails that had been cleverly cut, and a strange skirt sort of thing, and a vest, and in an array of colors and patterns. It could have been terrible, but it wasn’t. It flowed around him. The whole show watched as he walked - he was wearing shoes with heels, not quite impossibly tall, but enough to lengthen his calves and give him a strut - over to Washington and took his arm. 

It must have been spectacular, to have him, ultra-conservative in his dress as he was, and this radical creation. 

“Nice outfit,” he said. Hamilton smiled. He was wearing dramatic makeup. His eyes were huge and greener than Washington remembered, and he had made his face narrower, more feminine. 

“Like I’d fuck up Paris,” Hamilton replied, out of the corner of his mouth, as to not disturb the ten thousand flashbulbs that were going off around them. 

*

Not yet mentioned was that these two gentleman had occasionally once drank too much whiskey together, and engaged in what is typically considered unacceptable relation between an employee and his boss. They had both enjoyed it a lot, but when they had woken up they had resolved not to talk about it again, and promise not to engage in something similar again.

Washington was thinking of that night even though he should not have been. He was thinking about how Hamilton had been the way he was - intense and forward and demanding. He had yanked Washington on top of him and demanded to be kissed. He had dug his fingers into Washington’s neck. He had groaned when Washington bit him. He had pushed Washington into the mattress and give him the blowjob of his life. 

Hard not to think about those kinds of times when Hamilton dressed up like that, with that makeup, and that hair, and those shoes, and the way he laughed when people complimented him, and the way he stood, and the way he stood next to Washington and talked about yes, he was wearing a great outfit, but there was something to be said for tradition, and no one was better at that than Mr. Washington. 

They drank. You drank at this kind of thing. There were hor d’oeuvres. Speeches. Boring. He thought about that other night. Hamilton had come onto him during a gala like this one. Hamilton had been wearing a tuxedo then. 

Hamilton was bored by speeches, but he was good at pretending to look interested. Washington stole glances at him out of the corner of his eye. His jacket had an unusual collar. It made his whole neck look more elegant. Someone accepted an awards. Washington reached under the table, touched Hamilton’s thigh. Skirt. Not quite a skirt, but enough. Kilt, maybe. Hamilton looked over at him, and then his hand - wrapped around Washington’s fingers and pulled them up his thigh. Washington smiled out of the corner of his mouth. 

Around 2 AM enough people had left that he could leave. Hamilton was talking to a beautiful dark woman in a red dress who was standing too close to him. 

“Mr. Hamilton,” he said. 

Hamilton turned and took him in. “Is there something you need me more?” 

“Yes,” he said, and did not elaborate. He needed him for a lot of things. God, he needed Hamilton. 

“Sorry, Ms. Reynolds,” Hamilton said, and gave her an apologetic shrug before walking off. 

He decided, or perhaps the whiskey decided, that he didn’t care if the elevator had cameras. He pressed the man into the mirrored back wall and tilted that face up to him. 

“Don’t ruin my makeup, it took forever to do,” Hamilton said, but he was staring directly at him, and Washington could feel his interest. 

“I am going to ruin you,” Washington murmured. Hamilton shivered, and his head fell back against the elevator wall. 

“Actually, yeah, it’s okay if you ruin the makeup.” 

Into his hotel room. A suite. When they kissed he tasted lipstick and powder. Hamilton’s hands were at his jacket. They were on the bed before he realized that Hamilton had hid his zippers and clasps spectacularly; he made a note later to ask about it. For now there were more important things. There weren’t usually more important things than looking your best. But. 

Hamilton’s jacket came off easily enough. The vest was tricky but he discovered. A shirt. Next the skirt. A secret zipper up the side. He had pants underneath. Too much thinking when he needed. 

“I probably look so stupid,” Hamilton said. His makeup had smeared across his face, “Can you let me clean this up?” 

“I like it just fine,” Washington growled, and he kissed Hamilton until he shut up, hands tracing down the lean body. Hamilton groaned into the kiss and Washington ground their bodies together and Hamilton moaned. 

“You are so fucking hot,” Hamilton said, panting, when they separated. Washington bent his head to kiss that beautiful neck, draw his tongue across a collar bone. 

“I’ve never seen anyone look as good as you looked tonight,” Washington said, and he sat up on Hamilton’s stomach. Smeared makeup or no - those green eyes. That body, with the narrow shoulders. This strong, lean chest. His boy, he thought. In so many ways his boy. “Where did you come up with all that?” 

“I work at a fashion magazine?” Hamilton retorted. Washington kissed him again, a punishment. Didn’t seem to work. His punishments usually didn’t, with Hamilton. 

“Roll over,” Washington said, and they arranged themselves so he could. He did without complaint, and Washington was treated to the sight of that strong back, and that pert, gorgeous ass, and he had all kinds of hunger in him at that moment. He sad on Alex’s back and stared at his ass, and then he leaned forward and spread that spectacular ass wide and ate his fill, listening to Hamilton beg. His boy, he thought.


End file.
